ning. But
couldn't you get another scene into it?

_William._ Well, I've got an old curtain-raiser here, but it doesn't seem
to fit in somehow.

_Actor-manager._ Nonsense. In a dream play it doesn't matter about fitting
in. What's it about?

_William._ Oh, the usual sort of love thing. Only it's in the tropics, and
I really want an ice-pudding scene.

_Actor-manager._ Then make it the North Pole.

_William._ Good idea.

[_Exit to do so._

EPILOGUE.

_Next morning._

_William._ I've had an extraordinary, dream, dear, and--er--I've decided
not to eat so much in future.

_Mary._ My darling boy!

[_She embraces him; and as the scene closes William takes his fifth
egg._

CURTAIN.

A. A. M.

* * * * *

[Illustration: AN ALTRUIST MALGRE LUI.]

* * * * *

NEWS FROM THE FRONT.

["THE SARDINE WAR."--_Headline in a daily paper._]

There was peace at first in the tight-packed tin,
Content in the greasy gloom,
Till the whisper ran there were some therein
With more than their share of room;
And I saw the combat from start to end,
I heard the rage and the roar,
For I was the special _The Daily Friend_
Sent out to the Sardine War.

The courage was high on every face
As the wronged ones took their stand
On the right of all to a resting-place
In a tinfoil fatherland;
Yes, each one, knowing he fought for home,
Cast craven fear to the gales,
And the oil was whipped to a creamy foam
By the lashing of frenzied tails.

You may think that peace has been quite assured
When you've packed them tight inside,
But the sardine's spirit is far from cured
When you salt his outer hide;
They gave no quarter, they scorned to yield,
To a fish they died in the press,
And, dying, lay on the stricken field
In an oleaginous mess.

* * * * *

ISABEL IN SPRINGTIME.

There is a gladness in her eye,
And in the wind her dancing tread
Appears in swiftness to outvie
The scurrying cloudlets overhead;
In brief, her moods and graces are
Appropriate to the calendar.

And yet methinks that Mother Earth,
Awake from sleep, hath less a share
In this, my darling's, present mirth,
Than Madame Chic, _costumiere_;
My love would barter Spring's display
For Madame's window any day.

* *